Tag: itsokaynottobeokay

A kind of Blue

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I was often almost late for school. Almost late as opposed to late because I wasn’t very good at confrontation and the thought of being asked by Mr Kettlewell to press my nose against the classroom wall, back turned to my friends was quite a daunting one. Not sure public humiliation is allowed as a form of punishment anymore. I was often nearly late because I was lining my jumper with a pair of headphones, and stuffing my puffer with a counterfeit CD collection like I was going to shop myself at a bar in Spain. For as long as I can remember I’ve been a creative. I wanted to write, play and perform. It seemed counterintuitive not to use lessons like Maths and Science to immerse myself in things that inspired my spark so I would wrestle Linkin Park into a Sony discman under the table and hope everything was panned to the right.

Apparently as I left year 2 my mum asked my teacher if she were to guess what I would do in adulthood, what it would be. She said ‘writing’. And that’s where I remained most passionate. I played the piano and guitar, wrote words and sang songs. I often chuckle to myself about one particular verse written about the Jarrow March aged 9:

“Men marching, marching, marching,
Men marching here and there,

Men crying, crying, crying,
Men crying for their town”

It actually sounds more like Baldrick than Burns. 

I was a little boy with a big dream.

Yesterday I had the first real low feeling in a very long time; not sadness but self doubt. A disbelief. In my own ability, and in what others think of my work.

I’ve had a flirtatious career in the creative industry. Lots of near misses. Some strange experiences and plenty of requests for friends and family to ‘enter newest plea here’. I’ve been under no illusion that my road to Jools’ hootenanny should be laden with palm leaves however I’ve often felt there could’ve been a chance. Last night, however, i felt overwhelmed with tears watching Disney’s  ‘Soul’ for the 3rd time this year. It’s Eli’s favourite – I’m not an addict. If you haven’t seen it, please do. It’s protagonist Joe is an extraordinary 40 something Jazz musician turned teacher by financial necessity. It’s a deep investigation into what makes us human and what ‘purpose’ is. For most of the film Joe believes that for life to have any meaning he must become a successful musician. Over the film he learns that his life has no singular purpose – no one’s does. And during Joe’s epiphany moment, I found myself succumbing to tears (for also, the third time).

I actually felt like I’d reached Joe’s moment of realisation a long time ago. A life isn’t measured by its measured successes, but how it’s lived. I last played my own songs at a gig in 2016, packing away the quirky pedals, not putting pen to paper, and certainly not inviting any friends to a dark room in Hackney in return for a free lift to London for the evening. Friends have gone on to ‘hottest record(s) in the world’. To prime time TV. Have become recognised authors and are the lockdown restaurant startups causing you to drool over your Instagram feeds. I couldn’t be happier, and love to be able to be the friend that still remembers the glory days of Rustington Otters or sticking to the floor of the only club in town. I found myself weeping because I still had a dream. In the same way that you dream as a child to be a fireman, not because your life depends on it. But because it’s your dream

A chasm of questions flooded my brain but two irked me the most.

How do I get there? Am I actually any good?

As we’ve landed in 2021, it feels like a lot of us have a bit of a seize the day mentality. A cocktail of wasted ‘rona time’ and January resolutions perhaps; I’d set myself the goal of striving to write professionally, in whatever form by 31st December, this year (actually after watching Soul the first time round). In ugly wording, to earn a living, predominantly from creativity. I’ve been writing daily – in song form, as a comic and as you know (because you’re reading this) in journalistic format. It’s been such a release to create again. I’ve been feeling insightful, fulfilled, and artistic. And then there comes the wall.

Since making the decision to pick up the pen, dust off the delays (they’re a guitar effect), and somewhat script my self deprecation, I’ve noticed a huge drop in social media engagement. As if the broadband box was listening, and Mark Zuckerberg was alerted that I was not merely musing. That I was an artist. Self promotion doesn’t feel very easy when you are the product. Yet in a world where content is king, and everything is a point of sale, I find myself aware of the insights.

I lay in bed, a little dejected. The algorithm had only shared a piece of work to 3% of my ‘audience’. As if the internet had decided before anyone else could, that I wasn’t good enough. My partner, defiant in the fact that wading the water of dejection was worth it, and that to dare to dream wasn’t just a road to rejection. She reminded me of the comment someone had written a few days previous thanking me for my writing and telling me how helpful it had been in relation to their own life. There are so many quotes I could land on from the David Brent school of philosophy but this is today’s take home, for myself more than for you. 

“A philosopher once wrote you need three things to have a good life. One, meaningful relationships, two, a decent job of work, and three, to make a difference. And it was always that third one that stressed me, to make a difference. And I realise that I do. Every day, we all do. It’s how we interact, with our fellow man.”

And here I am, still writing. Because as self unaware as Brent is, every day alive is a day we make a difference. 

When I was wondering how best to picture-pair this piece, I remembered that I keep a childhood photo in my studio of my cousin and I sat on our grandads lap immersed in his organ playing. I use it to show children that I teach where a seed of interest can lead you. Maybe tonight, it’s a reminder to myself where I’ve already been led.

Whatever walk of life you find yourselves in, I’m sure you’re going to find yourself in your own little blitz at some point. Like tiny little bombs exploding self doubt and fear of failure. When those moments happen, I dare you to ‘do it anyway’ and keep composing. I don’t want to tell you whether or not Joe ‘makes it’ as a Jazz musician because if I don’t ever end up with some kind of deal, it doesn’t mean I didn’t. 

Dry your eyes, mate.

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Picture the scene. A hefty 15 year old boy, lay aloft (it is aloft) a Thuka (knowing the age group sleeping in their beds, they could’ve chosen their name more carefully) cabin bed sobbing into an already fairly snottily covered pillow one Thursday morning in 2004. My mum, because she’s still a saint,  gallops up the stairs to tend to her inconsolable eldest son. 

“To break from protocol, we’re going to play that beautiful song again, straight away” Jo Wiley told the abundance of (I’m hypothesising) brickies, cabbies, students, ‘keyworkers’ and the like falling apart by their newly purchased DAB radios. “It’s The Streets, mum, it’s like he knows my life”. 

I can’t remember exactly what part of my life Mike Skinner had been privy to at the time. It couldn’t be the 93% attendance record at school because that was deemed by the schools as ‘for my eyes only’, and it couldn’t be the fact my WWF wall tidy was fraying quicker than The Rock could smell;

I must not have received the text reply I was holding out for as I probably bravely penned to an unsuspecting recipient:  

“Nobody sed it wz easy, It’s such a shame for us to part, Nobody sed it wz easy, No1 eva sed it it wud b this hard, I’m goin bk 2 the start.”
Tb. Luv u x x x

NME wrote at the time that Dry Your Eyes was “a hairs on the back of your neck song for jilted lovers”. “Rarely before had Skinner sounded so poignant and vulnerable, and, well, normal” Tony Naylor so concisely put. I returned to this song so many times over the fifteen years of relational turmoil that followed.

The fact I can’t remember if this rejection was from C or H, or maybe even the fact I thought it could’ve been a yes from J but she was still with R, but then I enticed her with a shared train journey to see Muse meaning it turned out not to be a rejection either way J meant that it wasn’t all that bad. But in those 9:02 minutes I felt like he knew whatever ever it was that I was going through. Side note: he must’ve had my number as the preceding single ‘Fit but You Know It’ seemed to contain musings that only the snowman with its secret pocket had been stored with. 

The take home, tissues were needed on more than one occasion.

This week there was a change to Monday’s television schedule. Boris once again requested that we’d stay home and limit our interaction with the outside world. The very same day, I had earlier responded to a Facebook post asking me to rate how I was feeling by way of a coloured heart. I responded with a red heart – ‘I was doing great’. A mere twelve hours later, in one single moment my life had turned round.

Okay, that is a slight exaggeration but the new year, new me-moon certainly felt more like same shit, different day. Skinner writes that ‘the world feels like it’s caved in, proper sorry frown’. I didn’t sleep on Monday night. Restless. Anxious. Somewhat overwhelmed. I felt the weight of the family’s finances collapsed upon my chest. All plans of being creative, of rediscovering my artistry felt like they had to be shelved. And, the 2 stone weight loss that had been achieved before Christmas seemed like the dying embers of an open fire. Or perhaps a better metaphor would be simply asking the question: what’s the opposite to a tyre puncture?

Lying wide eyed as my partner and son slept, I didn’t know how we were going to cope with the mental, productive, financial and emotional complexities of another full lockdown. In that moment, that red heart emoji was certainly bleeding its colour.

There’s a meme being passed around the internet – there always is – that says “thank you for my seven day trial but I’d like to cancel my subscription to 2021”. So much of day to day life is transient, I’ve learned anyway. ‘It was best of times and it’s the worst of times.’ I always I like to turn to The Office in times of writing and there’s a moment where David Brent describes life as just a series of peaks and troughs. “You don’t know whether you’re in a trough until you’re climbing out, or on a peak until you’re coming down”. 

I’m writing this at the end of the first week of lockdown 3 probably somewhere between okay and great. On Tuesday I reached out to my coach to ask for help in processing these ever fluctuating feelings, trying to work out how to support my family, run the business that pays our bills but still find time to strike a creative match, once daily. We walked and talked (holding a two metre stick between us at all times), it always feels so good to talk. In a mere hour of passing time I had felt the feelings, acknowledged how they were affecting me and put in place a strategy to restart. 

BIR style Chicken Tikka Masala

New year, new me? I’m pretty sure this is actually the wettest dry January since records began. Instead, I invite you to embrace a ‘new year, same me’. You don’t have to change everything, it’s about being just a little more ready for not knowing what’s round the corner. Reach out, get mind fit. Set some little goals. Achieve them. (We’ve already a restaurant style curry from scratch this weekend!) There’ll be a forever of Mike Skinner moments, but it’s only a 4:32 minute song. There’s always a follow up single (Blinded by the Lights, if you’re asking). 

Always feel the feelings. Even the tough ones. Even when they flip your life upside down. It’s so easy in times of stress to feel helpless, however I am so grateful to the years of process that reminds me to ‘dry my eyes mate, there’s plenty more fish in the sea’. That’s a metaphor, not always an excuse to join Tinder.

Caroline.

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Dear Internet,

Well, first and foremost thank you so much internet for all of your kind engagement and birthday likes, messages, GIF’s and party hats. This week has certainly be a waterfall of news from our tiny corner of the web! I do feel a little bit older than I did this time last week. I’ve noticed that I’ve made the switch from Radio 1 to Radio 2 permanently. Probably a long time coming. The morning aches – oh they ache! I’ve also discovered I’m really not as internet savvy as I once was. I do not know how to call Siri up on my new phone, nor sync calendars across providers. I made a big faux pas last week and it’s led me here.

I’ve been thinking a lot, recently, about second chances.

It was absolutely not my intention to post anything to my social media platforms about getting engaged a week ago. I wanted Mel to enjoy breaking the news, the likes, hearts, any comments. I wanted it to be her internet evening. All had gone to plan; she had tagged me in the picture and shared the news – whoever found out was going to find out and we were going to watch a film. Innocently, I changed our status to ‘engaged’ and before I knew it, it had posted that JOEL IS ENGAGED TO MELISSA. I’m so thankful to all of you who have gotten in touch over the last week – it just wasn’t quite meant to be so public.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about second chances. About how a year ago, on March 6th, I never would have even began to dream of being in a place with someone where I could even consider getting engaged. Life has (it’ll be a shock if you missed it) been somewhat chaotic over the last few years. I never intended to be a soap story. For that, I’m truly sorry. I’m sorry for the tearful conversations if you passed me sat at the beach. I’m sorry if you felt awkward because you didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry for my painful posts that led you to ask my nearest if I was okay. I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay for a very long time. My heart was broken. Mixed up, messed up and very unsure.

I wasn’t always a very good husband. I’d go as far as saying that I was actually a very bad one at points. I was so scared of it failing that I failed it before acknowledging its need for some plasters. My whole entire life leading up to getting married and the years that followed, I just wanted to fit in. Like many of us, I was looking for love, to be loved and seen lovingly. I’d grown up in a Sunday morning environment where lots of people had gotten married young and I was scared of not fitting the mould. Marriages are equally two people, but for my part, I let my wife down by not holding the relationship up when it needed it most. For that I am so sorry.

I’m not here, writing with regret, but with thankfulness, for the patience, for the experience and for the healing that failing marriage led me to. There are no sides, there is no battle, just four adults bringing up the most beautiful little boy, with joy.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about second chances. About how a month ago a lady with so much life left to live chose to take her own away because a second chance felt so unattainable. To Caroline, I never watched your shows but I have been moved more than ever by your story. It’s so quick to pass off a quick comment or opinion and think nothing of it. Someone once told me they thought of me as ‘dangerous’ whilst in a church setting and I was still dealing with that quick fire comment in counselling years later.

Last July, I met Melissa, a quietly happy young woman. We swiped right. We sat on the beach. We talked. We laughed. And in the weeks that passed, we cried as we shared our stories in greater detail than ever before. To quote Mel directly, she once felt she was “done and cooked – off the table”. She didn’t feel that she would get a second chance on a together life, with a partner. To have children, and to plan their weddings. I knew, call it God, fate, life’s novel, that I was going to marry her within an hour of meeting her, but I knew that I wanted her to remember it was okay to dream the dreams she had often boxed away. This girl had imagined being married by 30, and to be planning for a child but instead the birthdays would pass by.

In the past 8 months she has taught me how to have fun again. She has step-mothered Elias as if her own. She has hosted events for friends she hadn’t even met yet. She has held me as any last remaining scabs fall off from pains past. And now she has been able to begin to dream her forever dreams again.

There’s a good chance you don’t know Mel but for every loud, public speaking figure, there is often a Mel quietly helping write the speech. If you don’t know her, please pop into her cafe and meet her. She is how I imagine what God/life intended by love. The kindest soul you could ever meet.

I am sure there are people we know who are somewhat shocked at speed of our recent engagement but before passing any quick fire comment, I implore you to think wholly about what might be going on in the complete picture of anyone’s lives. I can’t stop thinking about what kind of messages Caroline Flack was receiving in her most private of moments. About how many people had opinions on her life trajectory. In the weeks past, we’ve chosen in our little unit to try not to vocalise comment or opinion, instead just to vocalise love.

At times, im aware that I could’ve portrayed something I completely didn’t intend to. I haven’t meant it to be ‘all about me’. These posts. My using social media to document my mental health journey. My experiences in the music industry. Actually far from it. I play music because I want people to have a good time and hope I can help. I’ve started stand up comedy because I hope that others can share joy in some of my embarrassing mishaps. I think I perhaps got lost along the way and forgot that happiness wasn’t fitting an ideal, or to a timeline, but that it could be found in learning to love who I was, where I was and how I was.

I’ve been thinking a lot, recently, about second chances. About how I sit here, free from depression, free from brokenness and free from the chains of my own past beliefs. About how for Mel it was her dream to be married at 30. 9 months ago, that dream lived in her dreams. She turns 29 in April (Sorry if maths isn’t your thing – see appendix 1) – looks like there’s a lot of planning to do! We all deserve a second go at whatever you call life.

Thank you for standing with us both, with all four of us parents in fact, and Elias too. Thank you for your concern or your not sures. At times I needed them. It’s okay to not be okay but it’s REALLY okay when you feel more than okay again, too.

“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”

❤️

Ps. I fully realise the irony of a mega post talking about not wanting to draw attention to a mega post 😘😘

Waves.

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“Who’s gonna drive you home, tonight?” – Drive, The Cars.

Advance warning. The following contains language that some readers may find offensive.

Fuck. It’s Thursday 22nd November 2018 and today came out of nowhere. There is no explanation for it, no real understanding why it happens but when it does, it’s like the waves crashing in onto the rocks upon the seafront where I live. I’ve been so careful in crafting these posts to try to articulate walking with pain in a way that it’s not too much about a ‘looking out a rainy window’ scene from Friends, whilst listening to With Or Without You by U2, but sometimes the carefully placed game of Jenga in your mind collapses and out of the blue, everything feels incredibly tough. It’s shit.

As I’ve carefully manouvered this year of new, of change and of self reflection and retraining, there have been moments, where for one reason or another, and sometimes no reason at all I’m sat balling my eyes out at work, or on the beach, or sometimes in my room. It’s something that I’m comfortable with sharing, and actually in doing so feel like I can shed my own stigma about the whole process. Understanding where it comes from is a completely different conversation and one that may come out one day or it may not, though I’d be inclined to think it will. Today, though, that happened. The icy air took my breath away as I paced the pavement on a short walk up the road to the local school that I was working at. Moving with a spring in my step, and an almost ‘I wish it could be Christmas everyday’ jaunt, I had a podcast in my ears. I was laughing. Audibly. In public. Not the easiest thing to process for the bewildered onlookers, exercising their dogs in the park. There was colour. There was joy. And then there was not. I stopped for two minutes to send a quick text and before I knew it, I felt alone, I felt scared and I was hurting.

I really relish time with Elias. He’s fast approaching 18 months now and when we can, we get out to the park. He loves it. He runs, he plays and he (said quietly) tries to help himself to other park users’ snacks. He’s a modern day Dodger. But one thing I really notice about him is that he is fearless. To him, almost every experience is a new one and he’s yet to know whether it’s a good or a bad one. Quite often a park visit will include at least one fall or maybe a little bump. In those moments, the fearless nature receeds and he clings, cries and calls out for help. It lasts a mere minute or so where the world has come crashing down and it’s bloody tough for him. It’s the way it is for all children, but what fascinates me is the resillience within to Chumbawumba their way through. To get knocked down but get up again. Their brains are still expanding and whether consciously or not, they’re learning how to manage the experience. Where it may be natural to apply the reins, I’m really keen for him to take these risks and to experience it and then feel it too, the good and the band. I love him so much, and it hurts to see him hurt but together we’re learning as father and son.

I had to use that knowledge today and remind myself that it’s okay to feel. I say it enough, gosh, I write it almost everytime; it’s okay to feel it. This week I spoke to someone about life, of my process, being like the tide. The sea goes out, it’s still, it’s serene. The sea comes in, it’s wavy, but you get up on that board and ride those waves unknowingly going to a new part of the beach (stones). The sea also storms. It crashes in, spitting shingle onto the promenade. It can be unpredictable, but that’s okay because although it gets crazy out there, the tide turns and it’ll be alright again soon.

Drive.

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“Who’s gonna drive you home, tonight?” – Drive, The Cars.

You good, you okay? A simple question, and not always a simple answer. October 9th 2009, I took my hands off the wheel and closed my eyes. I was done, to the naked eye, fit and healthy (maybe less fit than healthy), to my friends I was busy, energetic and fun. In my brain, in my heart, I was f**ked.

Carefully navigating the windy A34 along walls of bath stone I screamed out, tears flowing. I was lost, alone and fearful. The purring of my red VW polo as my company, I decided it was the end. In the strangest, most vivid moment of my life to that point, as I veered across the sleepers I heard the words ‘open your eyes, your Father loves you’. The radio came on and Drive by 80’s cheese band The Cars rang loud. It’s hard to articulate in short but I was suddenly on the straight, driving home, hands glued tight to the wheel. Two hours later my dad stood in the doorway, greeted me like it had been years and whispered that it would be okay.

Heartbreak, so unidentifiable, so undefinable. Partners, family members, jobs, pets, sports, however we love, it’s carried in the heart. In a culture that has been obsessed with a fix, we try to be okay. How to mend a broken heart, suggested by Google. Maybe we don’t need to, not just yet.

Sometimes it’s just shit. Heads ache, and hearts break. It’s okay to feel it, but do feel it and know YOU are still enough. Never too much, and certainly not too little. I figure the more we experience, however painful, however scary, the more we grow strong. So when those waves come in strong and your heart feels like it’s shards of shattered glass, know that it’s broken pieces that form the most beautiful of mosaics. We are a puzzle shape in an ever expanding jigsaw, not every bit fits together, side by side forever but they sure as hell are meant to be there. Every story in life has its place, hold that.

To the pieces that have been part of this boys puzzle, I thank you. It’s all relevant, it’s all process, it all just is. Today, on world mental health day I can say, I’m good, I’m okay, not always but that’s okay too. 

Bristol.

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“On and on you will hike,
And I know you’ll hike far,
and face up to your problems,
whatever they are.” – Dr Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go

This weekend I returned to Bristol, a place I called home in my first year of university. For many, returning to such a location draws memories of spilt drinks, dissertations, independence and self discovery. For me, not so much.

I was 19, and scared. I had a tutor that year who amongst many things told me I was too fat for the music industry, and my songwriting had been done, that I was Coldplay pt2. He wanted me to work harder. Tough love? Probably. Whatever his motivation was, (and i’m sure he wanted to see me healthy and successful) my response was internal, broken and mentally scarring. I retreated to my dorm and cried a lot (to Coldplay 😂). It was painful. I didn’t want to be in that place but I didn’t know how to get out.

I was 18 stone, desperate to be approved of, wanting to fit in, and to be enough. A theme that’s familiar to my writing of late. However, as I sat on the kerb of a pebbled alley early on Saturday morning, with the cold, wintery rain cutting into my face, I found myself shedding tears. Not in the pain of what was and came after, but in the letting go. Acknowledging the past, thanking it for its place in the story and releasing it, like a balloon filled with helium.

We all have our battlegrounds and sometimes we have to return, either geographically, communicatively or just mentally. But when you do, I challenge you to notice how far you’ve gone, where you’ve walked and are walking to. I didn’t become a pop star but I’ve lived, I’ve loved and I get to play music every single day. (I’m also no longer 18 stone too, but the Bristol hills are still very hard work!) In honesty, it’s not a year I’ve thought about too much until recently, as I’ve noticed the repeated cycles and patterns in my life. There are so many chapters to my 30 years, each one significant in its own way.

Walking with pain is hard, but letting go can be just as tough. Hang on in there. Oh, the places you’ll go…Dr Seuss is right, “kid, you’ll move mountains”.

Tuesday.

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“You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think” – Winnie the Pooh

So, it’s been a shitty/rough *delete as applicable* couple of days. The head has been loud and the busy world, a lonely one. Why post? Not for likes or to cry out in zero’s and one’s. Nor for praise, like Joel you’ve lost a tonne (I haven’t). But when you take that breath, like the first on a cold morn, and it’s fresh, it’s okay, and it’s not too heavy, you know you made it. There may be days like these again, and you’ll do it again. It’s been a shitty few days, so why post? Coz it’s real and it’s okay. Breathe easy kid, you’ll be just fine.

Scribble of a boy.

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“He was a scribble of a boy, all hair and mischief” – Jean Coyle-Larner

Last week I shared a piece of writing on grief and as we approach the end of summer, I’ve been reflecting on a lyric, “summer of love, so full of pain”. I think that summarises a place so many of us find ourselves in, on different occasions in our lives. A lot of us spent four hazy weeks declaring that football was coming home, it so nearly did. The weather was hot, the nights were long, the pubs were full and the gentle waft of bbq coals lingered in the air. We were together, through the adulation and in the commiseration. As the whistle blew on England’s WC adventure, I stood teary eyed, in a pizza restaurant, with the pictures beaming on to a piece of white MDF. Gareth Southgate consoled his young players, as I imagined what it will be like to hold my son in his grief, and then how my parents have stood with me in mine. Joel, you’re coming home, I felt, but just hold on.

Over the years there have been moments where I’ve been stood, quietly staring into the blurry nothingness of the busy world and I’ve felt completely alone. I’ve found myself in dark headspace’s imagining that it would be easier for it all to end. That the chaos of was too much. That maybe I was too much. It’s candid to pen (type) and tough to read but it’s that, candid. When someone suffers in their head, it’s hard to explain the thought process, because so often there isn’t one. Just a whole load of nothing and a heap of numb. But that is not truth.

When I first heard Sun of Jean ☝️ I was moved by a verse written and read by a mother bursting with LOVE for her ‘Mowgli’. “He turned the world upside down and we’re richer for it. He was and is a complete joy” she says. And I am that, to my mother, as my son is to me. We mess up, we make wrong turns but it’s all process.

I’ve had these words inked on my arm this week to remember who I am. That I am loved. That I love. So if you know that pain that rushes like a speeding train, embrace it, it’s okay ‘coz we’re in this thing together. It’s not the end. I am and will always be Jackie’s “complete joy, (her) scribble of a boy” and you will be someone’s too. Sometimes it’s just a case of hanging on in there.

Elias.

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How lucky am I that I have something that makes saying goodbye so hard – A.A.Milne

Grief is a funny thing. I’ve been thinking a lot today about how we grieve and how the process of grief applies when we (have to) say goodbye to the things that still remain in the world sometimes without us, sometimes around us. Relationships end, friendships drift, choices, plans, jobs, goals, all of it is subject to change. If we take the risk to do, we risk the outcome of grief.

We build an ideal, a picture and when that changes, it’s a shock. However long lasting, there is sadness when there are endings. How do we get over the world we had built, the picture we drew in our minds, or in our reality? When something so ambiguous as “it’ll be okay, you’ll get through it” is the answer, we can find ourselves running through every possibility, every decision, every outcome, hitting the grass maze dead ends like we’re at the mad hatters tea party. What if I did that differently? Would this be different? Maybe or maybe not, shit happens. It’s tough, it’s tiring, and it’s emotionally painful. But, and it’s a big BUT, as I’ve posted recently, if there is order to this chaos (and I believe in a maker that made me and so I do think there is) and you have plot twists and pauses then they were known, written for us, and there is healing, new dreams, and a whole world ahead of you. It’s all part of the story, it might just be the ouchy part.

I don’t get to see Elias everyday. But I get to see him lots, and when i have done of late my heart has raced in ways I can’t even begin to describe 💙 last night in the bath, he belly laughed like I’d never heard before. I fell in love all over again. Like it was our first meeting. Love like no other. One of many signposts to signal that there IS order to the chaos, and beauty in the madness. Okay, so the picture looks different to how I thought it might on numerous occasions over the last year but I know that my maker has a plan, this is just process and grief is a just a journey with an ending. This too shall pass. And should this resonate with you too, ambiguous though it may be, “it’ll be okay, you’ll get through this”. And sooner than you think. Breathe, kid, breathe coz everyone’s got an Elias out there somewhere worth holding on for.

Semi colon.

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“My story isn’t over yet.” – anon

Whatever your story, whatever your struggles, however you find yourself in a muddle. Or not. Remember, a book is re-written and written again. With plot twists and word shifts from planning to print. Though the framework’s the same, it’s all subject to change. It’s still you, your world, your footprints, your name. There’s a tool in this language, to pause, a semi colon. It’s okay to use it, the story’s not over.